Living between Valbonne and Arundel amongst the idle rich

Circus goes PC

The Marmite picture yesterday caused a good deal of comment, and reference was made to a recent Marmite TV advert which seemed to offend a number of RSPCA followers, mimicking as it did, the TV programmes where domestic pets are rescued. In the case of the advert, distressed jars of Marmite were being rescued. It was very funny but I think it would have been better if they were rescuing Marmite haters such as myself from the clutches that evil extract.

With ball boy and Currencies Direct affiliate Dancing Greg Harris of CD Villa rentals having to be in bed or such like by 7pm, tennis was abandoned and we were given a lesson in what happens if you promote someone above his grade. Nothing good can come of it, so I favour a swift demotion back to his more natural place as ball boy. At least as there was no tennis, I was able to indulge myself in a spot of lunch at Auberge de la Source. In fact I had agreed to be so indulged before the news reached me that it was ball boy Harris’s bath night with Matron, so I was unable to partake in a glass of rosé as I had intended to be fresh, with my powder dry, in the evening. So I was fresh at home and he was probably getting fresh with matron.

My picture today was taken in Valbonne on Tuesday when the circus did the rounds of the village to drum up business for the Arelette Gruess “Symphonik”, as it seems it is
no longer politically correct to call themselves circus performers. This is of course a great deal of tosh. They are a circus and that is an end to it. Will I be going? Not at those prices. Nice camels though.

Circus tours Valbonne

Bereft of tennis, and a loose end, we decided to find out whether the Queens Legs were (is?) closed. It is not, but apparently it will close on Sunday for a month, a penalty for having, unwittingly I am sure, been an outlet for Columbian marching powder, and the local Marie are not best pleased about it. As we stepped through the door we were confronted by the Cornish Tsunami himself, Matt Frost, the doyen of fashion (in his own mind) enjoying a quiet pint. Occasionally I am asked why he is referred to in this column as the Cornish Tsunami. I have the details but they are too disturbing fully to reveal. Suffice to say that he is a big unit, and when such a unit is stirred into action, especially on a beach with a loved one which, luckily was his wife, and the tide is coming in (can I say that?), well the laws of physics relating to water displacement can create err…waves. I think we should leave it there.

Anyway, Tsunami was in good form, cleverly buying his round during happy hour and graciously allowing me to buy mine after happy hour had finished. He is so well-educated that he knew the genus of the word tantalise, and suggested that what I needed in the web, our outside bar area, was a tantalist. In response I suggested he needed a punch on the nose, until he was able to explain to me exactly what a tantalist was. I am still no wiser, but given that he is 6ft 5ins tall and built like a brick shithouse, I decided not to make an issue of it.

Today is the start of the weekend but I find myself lined up to do any number of irksome tasks this morning. I must venture forth to Castorama, as opposed to nirvana, to buy a cat deterrent for the neighbours cat who has been sleeping in the pav. My suggestion to leave the horrid hound Banjo out there instead did not find favour. He could deter anything from coming near.